Monday, March 6, 2017

Supplication of the Old Ones

Supplication of the Old Ones
Bobby Derie

The whip cracked, and was answered not with a scream but a moaning whimper.

"You know your place." A latex hand clawed idly on his back. He could not see her with the blinders on, but he could feel her moving around him, the click of her heels on the bare cement, the vibration resonating up through his knees.

The whip cracked again, and he shuddered.

"It is good to know your place. It makes people comfortable to know that there is an order to things, and that they have their position within that order. To be pecked, and to do the pecking."

A rubber toe caressed him, not ungently.

"So much of our thinking of religion is shaped by Christian doctrine, we hardly think of it. In our daily lives we swim in a culture that is permeated by not just their values, but their ideas of how things are. Even those who have never darkened the door of a church in their lives think they understand worship and faith, they think that those are...universal. That all religions are like that, with their fanatics and their laws, their holy books and institutions."

He gagged, momentarily, on the silicone rod in his throat. Like an attentive owner, she went over and checked on him as saliva oozed out of the corners of his mouth, eyes tearing up.

"There, there pet." She went over to the rack, replaced the whip and then carefully stepped into a harness, buckling the hardness in place.

"The old gods - and I do not just mean Rome and Greece, although those are the ones we are most familiar with - the were no worshipped in the same sense as the pale Christ. The relationship was much more transactional. They were forces of the universe to be mollified, hungry invisibles to be satisfied...and yet, there was often an exchange."

Click click click of her heels as she left his sight again. He felt the warmth of her hand through the later as it lay on his tender buttocks. Then the sudden pull and emptiness...and a fullness again. A slow, long creep that only ended when her hips rested against him. She leaned down, pressing herself into his bare back.

"You can even see echoes of it in the Old Testament, the covenant between God and his chosen people. Why should God be bound by a promise, a contract? That is an older style of religious thinking, from a more primitive monolatrialism poking through."

She withdrew, and he shivered in anticipation of her return, feeling the bridge between them like a living thing. Wondering how wet she was, if she was getting anything out of this.

The thrust, when it came, made him yelp.

"What we call magic today - the invocation of older entities, of the old covenants, to provide the quid for the quo - it is not worship in the sense of offering up empty prayers. No, those who worship the Old Ones are superstitious, they allow awe and terror to overcome them."

She began to pick up the pace.

"The Old Ones do not need our prayers, and seldom heed them unless there is something in it for them. That is what so many forget, or have never known. It is about want, and you have to find out what they want and how to give it to them. In the olden days they tried sacrifices of flesh and blood, but there is a limit to physical hungers. No, sometimes they want something emotion, a need, a call that echoes something of what they themselves feel...a true supplication..."

He burned. The schlup schlup schlup mounted as her hips slammed into him, and he felt it like a pile driver into his guts. Once again, he began to choke. Quick as a flash, she grabbed his neck from behind and unbuckled the gag, ripping it from his throat like a squirming fish yanked out of the water. He breathed deep, retching dryly, and she never once stopped pounding.

"Say it. Say it now."

"Sh-shub..." he breathed and then screamed "SHUB-NIGGURATH!"

All went white, and then dark. He collapsed onto the concrete, into the puddle of wetness below him. The whole atmosphere had changed, it felt warm and smelled of wet fur and sweat. Limply, he felt her withdraw, his hole felt ragged, turned out. There was snuffling, the feel of a heavy presence in the room, the tread separate and distinct from the dainty click of her heels.

"He's all warmed up for you," his mistress said, in a reverent tone. "Just the way you like it."


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